


Stairway to heaven

by Anloquen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-04-24 00:17:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4897843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anloquen/pseuds/Anloquen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Selection of one-shots filling the gaps in canon or casting new light on certain scenes. Each is inspired by a song. Something to listen to and think about in cold, rainy autumn evenings. Destiel shipping. Dean&Sam - no shipping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 4x20

Reaper please take him home  
He's been wandering for far too long  
He feels so blue, haven't you heard  
He is the lonesome rider it's the lonesome rider's call home

Just feel all the love I'm giving you  
I'm back from the war, I've been missing you  
Where have you gone my baby blue  
I'm here all alone, I've been bleeding too

Volbeat “Lonesome Rider”

_Screams. Panicked cry for help, then just beastly growl of agony. Heavy burden - a baby - in your arms and a yelling man._

_This feeling of desolation of loss. A house burning down, collapsing slowly, part by part. Heavy wooden beams cracking and falling; fountains of red hot sparks. Memories inscribed in every desk, every doorframe, every window coming apart. Feeling of safety crumbling down, never to be found again._

_Somewhere inside - mother. This agonizing thought that she may be still alive. You know the pain of burns. You hope she is dead._

_The baby kicks and screams. Father’s vacant gaze is fixed on the fire. On everything that was left there._

_What now? What do we do?_

_He doesn’t answer. For weeks, for months, for years he does not really answer._

 

Castiel is dragged back to reality, but not to his own self. Another wave of intent encircles him, violates him, grows into his being like a parasite.

“What is your answer?” message flows from it right into Castiel’s consciousness.

“No. Never. No.”

 

_Quiet, warm safety spiked with bitterness. Then a roar, crash and pain. Agony. Broken bones, fighting for air, choking on blood filling your lungs. Hours and hours of excruciating headache and nausea._

_Loneliness. Compassion. Seing your loved ones scream and cry and beg for you to wake up. Being unable to tell them you’re right there._

_World regaining color; first real breath. Joy of having blood rushed through thirsty veins by beating heart._

_It lasts but a moment. Then comes another betrayal. Disbelief. Pain and guilt tearing your chest apart. Your father falling lifeless onto the floor. Your dry mouth restlessly repeating “no, no, it’s impossible, no...”_

 

“So, what do you say, little brother?”

Castiel can feel Raphael’s impatience like an electric shock that makes his whole being shudder.

“No...”

 

_Warm trickle of blood against your palm; mounting awareness that this is too much, that noone could survive such blood loss._

_Your brother slackening, weighing more and more. His eyes going hazy. Your brother’s jerky, strained breath against your neck becoming more and more desperate, then stopping. His body becoming still and cold in your arms._

_Guilt and despair making your throat hurt like you breathed fire. Like there was a barbed wire tightening around your neck. It won’t let go. Even when it’s over. Even when you suffer enough to for the pain to absolve you from guilt. It will be there forever._

 

This time it is Castiel who breaks free... Like he was drowning, fighting to break the surface and take just one breath to give him strength to go on. Raphael squashes his will, pushes him back into the nightmare.

 

_This time the pain is merely physical. Hellhound’s hot breath is terrifying, his claws dig deep into your muscle without a warning, but this fight is feels right and pure. There is relief in it._

_Then the hellhound tears your stomach open, tugs on your guts and you can think no more. You just scream._

_You are hauled deep, deep down. You’re helpless, terrified like a child._

_Then come endless years of fear, humiliation, agony. You beg, you pray. Not because you believe it could stop the ordeal. Simply because it is the only thing you can do._

_No chance to fight back. No chance to keep shreds of honor - you scream. From the first second they break you, rip an inhumane wail from you throat. You don’t even have this moment of resistance to remember, to hold on to, to convince yourself that you’re strong._

 

For a moment Castiel feels he is alone; he rests, tries to regain balance and peace. Just when he begins to think he is safe he feels Raphael pierce him again. Next second...

 

_...you feel a knot in your throat and spasm rocking your stomach, but it’s too late. Whatever happens, you can take this torture no longer._

_You take the dirty knife; blood of countless victims makes it sticky and foul. A part of you wants to retch. A part of you is glad that there is no dignity in the act; that everything is so beastly._

_It makes it easier. Easier to convince yourself that this man whose terrified stare bores into your scull is just meat. Easier to convince yourself that there are no humans in there._

 

Castiel feels his being disintegrate in one agonizing spasm, then emerge from the ocean of meaningless waves - weakened, flattened, bleached. For one precious moment he remembers that there is something important escaping him. Something he used to understand, but he understands no longer. Next second this spark is gone.

“What do you say, little brother?”

Castiel hesitates, but not because he is not convinced. He is just too dazed to answer.

“This is world. This is life,” Raphael’s words seep into his mind, “Are you sure it is worth saving?”

“It is not...” comes an answer. The same spark of vague understanding flickers in Castiel’s mind again. He strains to gather his thoughts “Dean...What... is going to happen with him?”

“He will be forgiven. He will forget the atrocities of his life and rest forever in the fields of the Lord.”

The archangel waits. This time he lets Castiel regroup before he finally asks:

“Will you let us end it?”

“Yes.”

Raphael’s being vibrates in soft, sneering laughter.

“You’re one submissive little bitch. Good. Good...”

 


	2. 4x22

Say a prayer to yourself

He says 'close your eyes, sometimes it helps'

And then I get a scary thought

That he's here - means he's never lost

And you can see my heart beating.

You can see it through my chest.

I'm terrified but I'm not leaving

Know that I must pass this test.

So, just pull my trigger

Rihanna "Russian roulette"

 

 

 

Dean's words echo in the angel's mind - raging, imperious. The same thought repeated all over again with every beat of Castiel's heart:

_"If there's anything worth dying for, this is it"_

There's a precipice of new life behind these words: terrifying, alluring, overwhelming. To decide what to live for and what to die for. It's so easy to get lost when you're the only one to chose the path.

Then again, it's so easy to waste eons of life, to let it trickle between your fingers and soak into sands of time.

Is it even life?

Perhaps Dean was right. Castiel let thousands of years slide in front of his eyes. He watched them through a thick pane. Amused, curious, but not really involved.

_"What do you care about dying? You're already dead."_

Castiel walks in circles, breathing heavily, with his hands clasped on his hair.

What does it mean to live? There's more to it than simply being aware and acting. There is this spark, that cinder in his chest. It bust into life what seems like a moment ago compared to his whole life. Why does this moment render past millenia insignificant?

Dean... The righteous man. Castiel is certain that none of other angels really understands what it means. They don't know the doubt, guilt, pain. They are not even capable of imagining know how much it took to withstand these downfalls. What is a smoldering ember in Castiel, is a raging flame in Dean; flame able to overcome the cold of brassbound destiny. The blazing denial of the inevitable. The unquenchable craving.

The angel breathes out jerkily, running his shaky hands down his face. Hurricane of taboos and fears start to swirl in his mind, but this call can no longer be ignored. He wants to let that flame set him ablaze.

What he fears the most is that he could never feel the warmth of that flame again. That he could spend the rest of eternity half-dead. With that pile of ashes left after the spark extinguishes, with that hollow in his chest throbbing with dull pain forever.

He appears in the green room again; determined and robust. For the first time in his life he feels blood really pumping through his arteries. For the first time in his life he really feels warm.

 

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

He squints in the blinding light of Raphael's fury and tenses up in preparation for the fight; hair on the back of his neck bristle; the blade in his hand feels cold as ice.

It is not a fight he can win, but he can buy Dean some time. Perhaps Winchesters will win. Perhaps they will lose. It doesn't matter. What matters is that they are free; they can keep on fighting. Now, finally, he knows that these precious seconds are worth his blood. His whole life was leading to this single moment, when everything falls into place, when every question is answered, when every doubt is dispelled.

When he made up his mind he didn't hope to live long. It took seconds to get them there - seconds that flare up in eternal darkness. Perhaps the prophet could remember it, pass the flame to others. Let them know that there is always a choice.

With a prophet by his side and Dean's words in his mind Castiel takes his last breath. He is ready. He is ready to die, because he knows he has really lived.


	3. 5x03

Road trippin' with my two favorite allies

Fully loaded we got snacks and supplies

It's time to leave this town

It's time to steal away

Let's go get lost

Anywhere in the U.S.A.

Blue you sit so pretty

West of the one

Sparkles light with yellow icing

Just a mirror for the sun

These smiling eyes are just a mirror for

Just a mirror for the sun

RedHot Chilli Peppers "Road Trippin"

 

 

 

It's the fourth time Dean catches himself opening his mouth to say something to Sammy. He's been doing it the whole day: to ask if he liked a song, to comment on news on the radio, to ask if he needed a pit stop.

There is relief in each of these unspoken questions. Finally he does not have to worry or defer. He can blast Led Zeppelin as loud as he wishes. He can sing along. He stops when his bladder is full or his stomach empty, not earlier. He can run a red light when there's no other car in sight knowing that no one will haul him over the coals and give him a lecture on traffic safety. He can roll the window all the way down without hearing Sam nag that the blow pushes his hair into his eyes.

Earlier, after the confrontation with the archangel he noticed angels did not really know family ties. Despite calling Raphael his brother Cas did not even seem to like him. Not to mention care. When he said he envied Castiel he meant it.

The day is sunny and warm, but not torrid. Almost like when he and Sam parted. Ever since that day Dean has slept better, drunk less, hooked up more. Each day this little rough pebble of fear or guilt or longing deep down in his gut hurts less and less, though it keeps growing. He covers it in layers of 'I don't care' and 'It's better this way' like a clam depositing nacre around an irritating grain of sand.

The silence that falls when he parks and leaves the car to fuel up and buy some snacks is deafening.

When he realizes he has bought two sandwiches and threw one onto the passenger's seat, expecting Sam to catch it, he sits down, rests his forehead on the steering wheel and cries.


	4. 5x04 Sam

Dead men lying on the bottom of the grave  
Wondering when savior comes, is he gonna be saved  
Maybe you're a sinner into your alternate life  
Maybe you're a joker, maybe you deserve to die

They were crying when their sons left  
God is wearing black  
He's gone so far to find no hope  
He's never coming back

They were crying when their sons left  
All young men must go  
He's come so far to find the truth  
He's never going home

System of a down “Soldier side”

  
It is strange to watch yourself being another person. It is even stranger when this person seems so distant, so wrong.

Nonetheless it is Dean too. It does not take the real Dean long to understand everything. He can tell from the way this new Dean turns his eyes away, from minute flicker of the corner of his mouth, from the way his voice becomes choky when they speak about Sammy. The way Dean holds the colt, the way he looks at it. The way he seems roused and proud when he mentions torturing the demon. The energy with which he slams the red circle on the map. Like a bloodhound that has caught scent, tugging on the leash.

Dean can’t stop wondering what it is that this new Dean wants to avenge: the world or only himself. He hates Heaven; he hates angels to whom he pledged his life for unning off and disappearing, leaving no instructions and a world to run. Still, he hates Sam even more for allowing this to happen. For shattered hopes, betrayal, for restless nights. He hates Sam for ranking out after they promised each other they would stay strong. For giving up first. Leaving his brother with no chance to do the same: to bury himself in a soft hum of flowing river, to drift with its flow. To hit the rock bottom and never worry about falling any lower.

This new Dean is not saving anyone. He knows his gaze could never be this empty if he cared about one single soul he could disappoint. Cas is right calling him “fearless”. He is not afraid, not worried, not even sad. The only way for Dean to break free from fear is to give up. There is no fear of failure if you do not hope to win.

This new Dean’s heart is filled with nothing but anger. Everyone else seems weary and downcast, but not him. Dogged determination fueled by hate makes his pace brisk and sure, his voice resonant, his jaw set.

Tonight Dean will either die or find peace. He will finally spit Heaven in the face. He will show them their precious righteous man. All he wants is to reach his lowest. Toshake every fleck of hope or concern that would make him struggle on. To finally prove that anyone who has ever believed in him was wrong. To buck off the burden of responsibility placed on his shoulders. To seal his fate.

Dean knows that this impetus, this barely masked fury cannot be meant for something so distant and impersonal as killing the devil or saving the world. The goal is clear; and to hell with collateral damage.

This new Dean is bent on killing his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I smuggle a lot of quotes from original series into the text and dialogues. I claim nothing, I own nothing, I'm just audacious.


	5. 5x04 Cas

I'm taking my ride with destiny  
Willing to play my part  
Living with painful memories  
Loving with all my heart

Made in heaven, made in heaven  
It was all meant to be, yeah  
Made in heaven, made in heaven  
That's what they say  
Can't you see  
Oh I know, I know, I know that it's true  
Yes it's really meant to be  
Deep in my heart

Queen “Made in heaven”

They say nothing more; Dean couldn’t find words even if he wanted to. Luckily this new Cas accepts silence and does not try to break it with small talk. Just like he used to... like he does in real... past world. Dean cannot pinpoint the moment when the angel began to prefer sitting on Impala’s passenger’s seat over zapping himself all over the continent. One day the hunter just caught himself expecting this warm, comforting presence next to him like something natural. Today they switched roles, but the feeling is ever so familiar.

Cas drives easily, yet remains focused on the road. So focused that perhaps he will not notice now intently his friend watches him.

Dean has an impression that this man behind the wheel seems reconciled, perhaps even serene, though he's just said he knows he is going to die. To go out in a blaze... No, not of glory. There is no glory in blindly following a mad man set on tearing own soul to shreds. There is no glory in pretending to be saving the world while really wanting just to escape it; not to have to struggle anymore. There is no glory in leaving friends behind without a proper goodbye.

So he watches Cas and wonders.

He recalls all these wistful looks. Adoration on Cas’s face when he cast that fleeting sidelong glance and said they were _all_ so beautiful.

He recalls how choked new Dean’s voice was when he asked:

“Are you coming?”

He remembers this panic that flashed through his face when Cas answered:

“Of course.”

This look is so familiar. He’s seen it in a mirror. It’s the panic he feels every time he is offered something he wants, but he doesn’t believe he deserves. The fear of price he will have to pay in restless nights, tears and blood. One thing hasn’t changed in 5 years. Dean knows that the world always demands payment.

Dean doesn’t know how much time has passed when he notices Cas squirming on his seat, stretching his fingers and trying to find a more comfortable position for his back.

“Wanna swap on next stop?”

Cas shakes his head. That moony blear is completely gone from his look; he seems fully sober now.

“Nah, no need to. But you can chose a tune if you want to. We still have like 5 hours ahead.”

The radio has a tape recorder, which evokes another pang of bitter memories. He remembers how hard it was to make Castiel - his Castiel - grasp the idea of tapes having side A and side B and recorders having a direction as well. He fumbles in the glove compartment and starts to browse through the cassettes.

“This one, is it OK?” Cas asks sharply when Dean checks one of them. Dean has nothing against.

He slips Queen’s _Made in heaven_ into the recorder and rewinds to play it from the start.

When Cas starts humming in tune under his breath and tapping the wheel in time with slow, lazy beat of the title songs first rays of rising sun start hitting his face.

Anger and guilt and feeling of betrayal swell like a stormy cloud in Dean’s chest. 

 

  
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

Later, when he stands by that road, looking into Castiel’s eyes he sees the same veneration. Barely sprouting, dug deep down, but already there.

He wants to shake it off. It’s like springs of a carnivorous plant twisting into a cocoon around him. Another person looking up to him, another person caring for him. Another liability. He has just freed himself from one prison and another is growing around him. He can’t afford it.   
  
He wishes he could make his voice sound cold enough to deliver the message, but compassion softens it when he says:

“Don’t ever change.”

Still, it’s not a piece of advice. It’s a warning.


	6. 5x10 Jo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Memories consume
> 
> Like opening the wound
> 
> I'm picking me apart again
> 
> You all assume
> 
> I'm safe here in my room
> 
> Unless I try to start again
> 
> I don't want to be the one
> 
> The battles always choose
> 
> 'Cause inside I realize
> 
> That I'm the one confused
> 
> I don't know what's worth fighting for
> 
> Or why I have to scream
> 
> I don't know why I instigate
> 
> And say what I don't mean
> 
> I don't know how I got this way
> 
> I know it's not alright
> 
> So I'm
> 
> Breaking the habit
> 
> I'm breaking the habit
> 
> Tonight
> 
> Linkin Park "Breaking the habit"

 

You've lost the track of time. White, tear-shaped remnants of ice cubes float near one side of the glass; you can taste warm scotch and cold, stale water from molten ice separately and you gag as the liquids mix on your tongue, burning and smelly. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that you're deadly tired, your arms hurt, your head aches, your eyes sting and your mouth feels like you've been vomiting, but you still cannot sleep. Your heart is struggling to pump cold, turbid blood through your veins and with each beat you feel dull pain hitting the base of your skull.

The fire burnt out hours ago. You keep staring at the pile of ashes, but all you can see is her smile, seared under your eyelids. That damned photograph was there not more than a few hours ago and you swear you can still discern the small rectangle of flaking paper. No matter how much you drink and curse and clench your fists, she is there. Smiling, biting her lip, tilting yer head slightly. You can still feel the fragrance of her sweet, girly perfume and the electrifying titillation that shot through your skin every time your hand brushed against her hair.

You go over events of the day again and again, wondering where you went wrong. You retrace every little detail, every bifurcation on the elaborate network of causes and effects. Still, every attempt leads to the same solution and you want to hate Castiel for leaving you there to face the demons and hellhounds, but ultimately you only hate yourself. For trusting him. For thinking that he would chose a group of humans - bald monkeys, cockroaches - over his beloved bigger picture. For letting yourself daydream; fondly hope that there was someone watching over you who wouldn't let you get hurt; who would protect you and lift the burden from your shoulders.

You pour yourself another double. The acrid smell of an old, dusty attic makes you wince, but it doesn't matter. You chug the whisky at once, hoping it would be the last swig you need to drink yourself unconscious.

It isn't.

A part of you wishes that he was there so you could yell, beat him, release the tempest of madness in your head. Another part of you freezes in revulsion and terror at the thought that he would stand unfazed through the beating and yelling; that he would bow his head, apologize and explain that casualties are unavoidable during a war. Because it's a fucking war that would have never started if you had been strong enough. All it took was bearing the torture in Hell for a little longer.

So ultimately it's all about you.

You throw the tumbler into the fireplace, watching the thick glass shatter in contact with soot-covered stones; the shards mixing with the ash and charred pieces of wood.

_Enough_.

You stand up and scream into the night, ready to puke out all the rage that's been swelling in your guts, to spew words of hate at his impassive face, to throw punches blindly until your knuckles bleed. In a silent rustle of wings he is there and all you can do is grab fistfuls of his coat, pull him close and cry; cry with your face pressed hard against his shoulder so that he doesn't see it.


	7. 5x16 God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My church offers no absolutes
> 
> She tells me "worship in the bedroom"
> 
> The only heaven I'll be sent to
> 
> Is when I'm alone with you
> 
> I was born sick  
> But I love it  
> Command me to be well  
> Aaay. Amen. Amen. Amen.
> 
> Take me to church  
> I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies  
> I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife  
> Offer me that deathless death
> 
> Good God, let me give you my life
> 
> (...)
> 
> No Masters or Kings  
> When the Ritual begins  
> There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin
> 
> In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene  
> Only then I am human  
> Only then I am clean  
> Ooh oh. Amen. Amen. Amen.
> 
> Hozier, "Take me to church"

It hadn't been possible until you both hit the rock bottom. Now that you know it can't be worse, nothing is forbidden.

You hear his scream through miles of ice-cold, damp air and in no time you are by his side, having forsaken the silly rite of paying respects to your slaughtered brothers and sisters. You don't even wait for the white light to die down and their grace to disperse in one last outburst of agony.

Dean is sitting on his bead, tangled in a blanket; there is sweat glistening on his forehead and terror in his unfocused eyes. It takes a while for him to notice you and when he finally does, he recoils in fear. You know it is not about the blood tainting your clothes or the fresh slash across your face that hasn't had time to heal yet. It's about the madness in your look.

Without uttering a single word you put two bloodied angel blades on the bed next to his thighs, surprised by how your own hands shake when you do it. He frowns in confusion, though there is nothing to understand.

"Zophiel. Amitiel. I had to," you explain in a dead voice. A part of you wishes that one day you would encounter an angel strong enough to overpower you; to end the ordeal of seing this white blaze of a dying grace over and over again. You would never willingly give up, but you wish the responsibility was taken from you; that the power to decide life and death was snatched from your hands by a force you wouldn't be able to resist. Instead, you keep winning. You are the invictus, you are Heaven's most skilled warrior; it sickens you to imagine that those who send lower rank angels to stalk you know that they will die at your blade, yet they keep sending them anyway.

Dean nods haltingly. His lips are still pale and his breath is quickened; you can't help but wonder whether it is an effect of his nightmare. Perhaps he is afraid of you. You wish he was, because it would mean that you are not powerless yet. It would mean that you are able to carry the task through. You bow your head and turn away, because your weakness is the only thing you cannot let him see.

Suddenly he covers your hand with his and squeezes slightly, reassuringly. His rough, calloused fingers are cold, but they warm up after a while, soothing the stormy ocean of your mind; you realize you want more. This is what you rebelled for. This very man made you suffer and inflict pain, he made you drown your doubts in blood. Though your conscience is tainted and you rot from the inside, you still have them. No matter how often you tell yourself that free will is worth your brothers' blood, there will be this icy void in your very core, sucking you dry, turning every move into a struggle to break through a welter of fears and regrets.

You need his warmth to heal this open wound in you; you need his fingers on your skin and the soft, ruthful gaze of his eyes. When he whispers "Man, I am so sorry" and brings his face close to yours, you don't understand what he wants, but you lean in to the touch, seeking comfort blindly and desperately. The brush of his cheek on your temple is like a prayer; you answer it and the caress of his lips on yours feels like deliverance. There are pain and desperation in the kiss, but there are hope and solace as well. You imbibe his breath until you're blind and deaf to the cries of your brothers; until you doubt no more.

If keeping yourself intoxicated is what it takes to forget about all the atrocities you have committed, so be it. You never want to be sober again.


	8. 5x18 Michael

_And I wanna kiss you, make you feel alright_  
_I'm just so tired to share my nights_  
_I wanna cry and I wanna love_  
_But all my tears have been used up_  
_On another love, another love_

 _And if somebody hurts you, I wanna fight_  
_But my hands been broken, once too many times_  
_So I'll use my voice, I'll be so fucking rude_  
_Words they always win, but I know I'll lose_

 _And I'd sing a song, that'd be just ours_  
_But I sang 'em all to another heart_  
_And I wanna cry I wanna learn to love_  
_But all my tears have been used up_  
_On another love, another love_

_Tom Odell, "Another Love"_

His words still reverberate in your mind. The words that felt like a slap in the face. _I don't have the same faith in you that Sam does._

The very moment you realized what he was doing you felt ice-cold claws of dread pierce your spine, yet you knew you would have been be able to overcome this sudden weakness and vertigo if you had really tried; you would have been able to speak and explain. You had plenty of time when you were standing there undisturbed while he was etching this damned sigil into his skin and calmly explaining the strategy. You did nothing.

It wasn't the first time you failed to save someone from the hordes of monsters you were fighting; it wasn't the first time you had to choke back self-loathing and carry on, having left unbuired friends behind. Still, failing to save someone from your own corrupting touch is a whole new level of loss. Having someone reveal - so damn composedly - that he was going to kill himself because you had failed him leaves you so thunderstruck that you are not even sure if you really feel anything.

Castiel's inhumane countenance was the worst that could happen to you. You would accept a tempest of wrath or callous derision, even pleading, but not the barely noticeable trace of pain in his seemingly impassive look. He even apologized. He even fucking apologized.

And yet you are here, driving leisurely through a warm, cloudless night. There is a spark of hope, perhaps even cheer smoldering in your heart. The one who started it all is here with you, browsing through your collection of tapes, grumbling at your ' _senile_ ' taste in music and almost denting the glove compartment flap with his huge bony knees because the days when he was short enough to fit in the Impala are long gone. Your beginning and your end. The one for whom you were ready to sacrifice your life and the one for whom you decided to live.

Sam smiles easily at you; it's all it takes to fill you with glee and hope. This warm feeling thrumming in your chest feels like the ultimate betrayal, because deep down you know you used to be someone's beginning and end. Someone's everything. A small ember of anger adds to the warmth inside you, because you have neved asked for this dogged devotion; because all you really want is for people around you to stop counting on you, to stop encumbering you with their faith in you.

You're alive. Sam is alive. You will have plenty of time to torture yourself with guilt and regret later; now you bulldoze the anxiety out of your mind. Sam huffs a small laugh or a sigh of relief after noticing that you are tapping the steering wheel in time with Led Zeppelin's "Ramble on". You even mouth the lyrics, though there is a bitter tang of bile in your dry mouth. For once you try to let yourself feel good.


	9. 5x22 God

_I raise the fist, raise the fist with power and fate_  
_And wishing that his claws will grab onto my hand_

 _I like to believe he's the chosen one_  
_I like to believe he's the fallen one_  
_Dead but rising_

 _I have been to the end of waters_  
_I have been to the end of earth_  
_I've been over mountains and riding the storms_

 _Dear son, your words have reached me_  
_And for that I can carry on_  
_I'll guide you in spirit. Today I'll be home_

 _I like to believe he's the fallen one_  
_I like to believe he's the chosen one_  
_The rebirth of man heals a bleeding heart_  
_The eagle of kings wears my father's soul_

_Dead but rising_

Volbeat, "Dead but rising"

You know it's over the very moment you see a glimpse of his serene face through your swollen eyelids and the blood flooding your eyes... And it's so perfectly ironic that you are kneeling while he approaches you, then reaches out to press his fingers to your forehead. This uncaring touch that makes you flinch is so unlike all these soft caresses of his fingertips and lips with which he used to heal you earlier, always sneaking affection and veneration into the tingling flow of his grace. If it was not for the shock and pain you would recoil from his hand.

There is so much power seeping from Castiel's vessel that you catch yourself expecting the touch to hurt, to send a jolt down your spine. You almost feel the static around him; white noise of barely restrained power coiling and vibrating around him. Your eyes still hurt; you see red circles, bedazzled by the glaring light. It takes you a while to understand that it's just the sun. Just the sun.

"Cas, are you God?" you manage to choke out. He denies it, but he is so damn sure it was God who chose him and brought him back.

So _smug_ about it.

Then he turns away. Just like that. He leaves you on the graveyard kneeling over your living brother's grave and walks away. The nights you both have spent comforting each other, talking about your absent fathers and reassuring each other that it was high time to forget about them are discarded like they meant nothing. Everything you had shatters to dust; the one you expected to stand by your side turns on his heels to follow a compelling call as if it is his only purpose, as if he has been dormant, waiting for this summoning, ready to abandon everything else should he finally hear it. As if all he ever told you about choices and will meant nothing.

Just when you have lost everything - your purpose, your family, your strength - he denies you his love, he divests you of the feeling that you were important, cherished, cared for. It is only natural that God will always be an angel's ultimate purpose, so you choke back the curses you are bursting with and push the feeling of betrayal deep, deep down. You realize you were a fool to hope for anything else.


End file.
